Stitches
by SkyKissed
Summary: Sometimes Wash can't help but wonder if Taylor's confidence in her first aid abilities serve as little more than an excuse to go rushing headlong  into danger. Just a bit of pre-series fun.


A/N: Oh come on, I can't be the only one whose fan girly heart was intrigued by Taylor's speech about Wash's medical skills and stitches? Was I? Really…?

…

Stop looking at me like that. :D Alternately, the tone of this story is more informal. Why? Because I did most of it from Wash's inner monologue which I imagine is significantly more snarky than...regular narration?

* * *

><p><strong>Stitches<strong>

There are times, rare times admittedly, when Wash's thoughts stumble into strictly insubordinate territory. Times where she doesn't wonder if Taylor's confidence in her first aid abilities serve as little more than an excuse to go rushing headlong into danger.

_It's all right_, he'll say, all confidence and poise, regardless of whatever flagrantly _not_ all right wound he's suffered, _nothing to worry about. Wash is the best damn field medic I've ever met. _

As if that'll help when his guts are hanging out or he's been riddled with bullets. Again.

She has, over the course of their relationship, removed fifteen (or was it twenty…) bullets from various regions of his anatomy, set five bones, treated three _relatively (_his words, not hers_)_ severe burns and stitched his hide back together… well, more times than she'd care to remember.

What's worse, with each new success, he only grows more confident in her abilities, to the point where anyone who didn't know her would think she was Jesus Christ reborn, healer of all wounds. Sometimes he'll grin at her in that distinctly nonprofessional way of his, almost as if he's teasing her, knows how much it stresses her whenever she has to put him back together.

She can only assume this is, in fact, the truth because any normal individual, civilian or soldier, would have learned their damn lesson the first dozen or so times. A _normal _person would have realized being perforated by bullets was a _remarkably _unpleasant experience and seek to avoid it at all costs.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you were looking at it from a strictly professional standpoint), the man was simply too selfless. The idea that he should be waiting patiently back at command while his boys were out there risking their lives was a positively foreign concept. And so into battle he would go, guns blazing, looking positively (she hates herself a little for thinking in such girlish terms about her commanding officer) heroic, eyes blazing, cutting a remarkably dashing image amidst the primeval jungle.

A primeval jungle that is, she concludes, hell bent on murdering his ass.

Taking in the extent of his wound she feels the sudden urge to bury her head in her hands. Perhaps to laugh at the absurdity of it all, perhaps to weep; it's difficult to be sure most of the time. Divested of his shirt and armor, an ugly tear snakes down from his clavicle, over his ribs, ending just shy of his hip. It's not terribly deep but it bleeds profusely, leaving smears of crimson across his far paler skin. The fact that he continues to bark orders instead of sitting still and letting her actually treat him certainly doesn't help.

Damn dinosaurs and their damn claws. Slashers had been encroaching on the perimeter and, surprise, surprise, Taylor had insisted on dealing with it personally. And while the creature that had inflicted the gory mess on him lay dead not five feet away, she can't help but think it isn't worth it. He'll be out of commission for weeks. At least that's what she tells herself, and hopes, though a part of her realizes she'll be lucky if she can get him to take a few days to recover.

The soldiers are, understandably, concerned after watching the lacerating of their Commander. Surprise, surprise, Taylor is not. The man just leans casually on his knees as if bleeding out in the woods is a common activity for him, waving them off with an easy smile.

"I'm fine, nothing more than a scratch. Besides, we've got Wash here to patch me up. You boys go ahead. Finish the bastards off." Easy as that, no worries at all. How he manages to remain so relaxed she'll never know.

Releasing a sigh, Alicia kneels beside him, lifting his arm before setting it over her shoulder. The added weight is something of a hindrance but the awkward location of the cut requires some finagling. She can't have him lying in the dirt, can she? It's medically sound decision, really, and not just an excuse to touch him, though it sounds like a flimsy justification even in her head. He permit's this without comment, shifting a little to permit her better access. He does, however, flinch under her ministrations the moment her fingers brush his ribs.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to your cold hands, Wash…"

"Stop getting yourself torn up and you won't have to," she replies, her tone somewhat distracted as she continued the arduous task of cleaning the excess blood. Taylor simply chuckles, not at all offended by her rather terse demeanor, falling silent as she goes about her work. Despite her own discomfort with the situation she truly is a decent field medic, and the cut does not look half so bad once properly cleaned.

She'd just prefer he didn't throw himself in harm's way so frequently.

"Something on your mind, Doctor Washington?"

The moniker causes her to chuckle. Setting aside the alcohol swabs and the ruined rags, she plucks the needle from the first aid kit. Stitches. Yey. She'd add it to the mental catalogue of wounds he's sustained but finds she's lost count, "Nothing at all, sir."

"You're a terrible liar."

For a response, she jabs him with said needle. Well…not really, but it does seem a convenient time to begin her work. They've been through this enough for him to realize how she operates. Whatever she is thinking is not something she'll share. She simply adopts a look of pure concentration on her face, as if through will alone she can mend whatever tear he's suffered. It is perfectionalism incarnate, each of her stitches carefully calculated, delicate, even, as if she's afraid of causing him pain.

Silly, really, when he's just been torn open.

When she thinks back on it, hours later, it's a remarkably intimate experience. Devoid of conversation he focuses instead on the feel of her hands on his skin, cool and a remarkable counterpoint to the warmth of her breath. A part of her remains aware of this attention as well, tucking away the sensation of skin on skin, the way his eyes follow her with an amalgamation of pride and amusement. It's…comfortable, albeit incredibly improper. For obvious reasons regarding chain of command and because he's been bleeding all over the both of them. The situation is hardly conducive for romance.

When she finally leans back it's with a pleased smile on her face, "Oh, Nathaniel," She runs a hand through her hair, laughing despite herself. "Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven stitches." It's a record, even for him. The unspoken, _for the love of god, don't do it again_, is not missed by either of them.

"Well," he pauses, patting her shoulder in thanks, "that is impressive."

It's as close as he can come to saying he'll try.


End file.
